Generations
by captaincreepypasta666
Summary: In 1968, a thirty-year-old named Gerard Erron enlists in the USMC. This man has a secret though that he keeps to himself. He has a secret power sought out by cults and religions: immortality. His history goes all the way back to the late 16th century. Since then, he has witnessed historical events. Will he make it to the Gathering? Rated M for graphic violence and strong language.
1. Prologue

Welcome Fantasy-lovers, to a story that fits your needs. This is the prologue to Generations, a story based off of the genius of Highlander, a 1986 cult film about IMMORTALS! However, I am sure you already know this. Be aware though, since I am trying to be as historically accurate as possible, this story will describe in detail, medical practices used back in the 16th century, some will probably be unbelievable. History buffs are free to rip the story apart and let me know about any historical inaccuracies, big or small. If they don't bother you, then that is okay. Without further ado, here is Generations.

OOO

"Immortality. A toy which people cry for. And on their knees apply for. Dispute, contend, and lie for. And if allowed, would be right proud to die for." - Ambrose Bierce (1842-1914)

West Flanders, 1568

A terrifyingly large thunderstorm loomed over the rolling hills of the farmland. Wheats of yellow were now dirty with mud and flying in the wind. Calm cattle were frantically pushing each other around, trying to get away from the beastly rain. Horses were neighing and grunting loudly, full of fright from the close-proximity lightning. Storms like this were feared in around farm country, especially in the middle of the Spring as this part of Flanders had gotten many tornadoes in the past, and the weather was not afraid to produce one.

But even over the frantic crying and moaning of terrified animals, one noise stook out from the rest. It was a noise of pure pain and suffering. It was a woman's shriek. It was coming from inside of the farmhouse, the thatch roof peeling from the strong wind.

From inside of the house, in the middle of the living room, was a woman, laying on a blanket that lied on the floor. Her husband sat near her, holding her hand. She was being lit up by a row of candles lying on tables and even chairs. She was thrashing around, as if somebody was holding her down. She shrieked as she could feel a sharp pain in her vagina, like if she was trying to pass a rock. The thing was that while she was in pain, she was also very excited. She had been in labor for 9 months, just now getting her wish for a baby.

The lady's husband leaned over close to her, while she looked him in the eye.

"Be strong, Maryanna. From this day forward, we shall remember this day forever as I am afraid this will never happen again," the husband whispered in her ear.

"I plan for it not to. The pain is terrible," Maryanna said to him, tears running down her face.

In the doorway leading into the room, a stood. He wore a heavy-brown coat on top of a paper-thin white cloth shirt. His hair reached as long as his shoulders. He was at a height of 5'10" and had dark red shades over his tanned skin. When he entered the room, her husband looked up and almost fell backwards. He had called the doctor an hour or two before the storm. The problem was that he lived across the County Of Flanders, so it would take sometime to get across there.

"Oh! Dr. Ronaldino! I feared you would never come out in this ghastly weather," he said, excitedly shaking his hand.

"Well John, if the worst comes, I thought I would be here to help," Dr. Ronaldino said. He leaned over her.

"How long has she been in pain?", he asked while ripping her kirtle open with a knife.

"For at least an hour."

"Has this pain been around for a few months?", the doctor asked while feeling around her chest for a pulse.

"I already told you. This is not kidney stones," John said.

"I'm sorry, at time like this I..."

"Forget it. You still are a great man."

Dr. Ronaldino threw the blanket of her body. He looked down into her vagina. He could see that it was starting to expand. The baby was ready to come out.

"Alright, hold her hand. The baby is ready to come out."

Maryanna looked towards John, smiling.

"Maryanna, listen carefully," the doctor said, looking her straight in the eye, "this going to hurt badly, but you need to do everything I say. When I say push, you push as hard as you can. Tell me if you start feeling weak or about to faint."

The reason for this is because during the 1500s to 1600s, 1 in 1.5 percent of women in child labor would die immediately after conceived. Sometimes, women would create their will when they even hear about being pregnant. It certainly was not very simple for doctors either. Doctors would usually have a few helpers with just in case something like this would happen, but since Dr. Ronaldino has to come alone, the process would deem to be much more difficult. If she fainted, he would have to drop everything and try to wake her up while the baby would be suffocating while trying to pull itself out.

"Ready. PUSH!", the doctor yelled. He could see the head of the baby pushing out a little more.

"PUSH! COME ON MARYANNA, YOU CAN DO THIS!"

Maryanna shrieked as she kept pushing. She could feel herself becoming more weak from the pain. The voices yelling at her were now a great octave low. She could feel spreading away from her. She knew she could possibly be dying.

"SHE IS FAINTING DOCTOR! HELP HER GODDAMMIT!", John was yelling at the doctor.

Before she fainted, she did hear the cry of a baby. When she moved her eyes toward her legs. She could see the doctor inspecting her newborn baby.

"It's a boy!", he said.

"Wonderful! Now could you help me here! She fainting!", John yelled.

Maryanna smiled before finally fainting.

OOO

That was the Prologue of Generations. The birth of the immortal. I tried to keep close to what child labor was like back in 1568. If I didn't do a real good job, then tell me. Anyway, next chapter goes into 1968 South Carolina where our main character reaches a Marine outpost to begin training. Next chapter title is unknown at this time. Stay tuned!


	2. The Lowest Form Of Life

The Lowest Form Of Life

Summerville, South Carolina, 1968

"I DON'T DECIDE WHERE YOU SIT, MARINE!', yelled the military bus driver, "WHAT I NEED YOU TO DO IS SIT YOUR ASS IN A FUCKING SEAT AND THEN YOU CAN DO WHATEVER THE HELL YOU WANT! YOU CAN EVEN PLAY WITH YOUR OWN DICK FOR YOUR AMUSEMENT! NOW SIT YOUR FUCKING ASS DOWN!"

Gerard looked in the bus driver's eyes, whose face was red with anger. Gerard knew though, that the bus driver was just doing his job. He knew that being in the military wasn't going to be easy, especially the Marines. Gerard knew that Marines took their jobs very seriously and would work themselves to the gates of Hell to get to their-

"WELL ANY FUCKING TIME NOW!", the driver yelled. Gerard had better get moving, or he would be in a world of shit.

Gerard walked slowly down the aisle, looking at every seat. On every seat was a man, ready to die for his country. Gerard found it funny that nearly everybody on the bus was younger than him. Some looked to be only seventeen or eighteen years old. It wasn't surprising him that there would be younger people fighting in the Marine Corps, as he had seen it throughout his life. Even back in the 1800s, midshipman were as young as twelve. Midshipmen this young were usually made servants to older sailors. If a young boy disobeyed orders or used their tongue the wrong way, they could be flogged at least 12 times. That is why young boys became great fighters. A great example of this is the great Admiral Horatio Nelson, who became a midshipman at 13 and became one of the greatest commanders of the Royal Navy.

"Hey!", Gerard heard somebody say something next to him.

"Right next to you," the man said.

Gerard looked to his left and saw a boy, sitting on the chair with a backpack sitting on his lap. He had brown smooth hair combed back behind his ears. He had glasses that fit perfectly around his eyes. The boy had a button-up, navy blue shirt with two pockets on each side of his chest. He looked to be at least seventeen years old, too young and fragile to be fighting a war like this. Gerard was in his late twenties to early thirties, and he didn't think that a young, innocent boy like this would last a millisecond on the battlefield.

"Name's Jack Hobbs, yours?", the boy said sticking his hand out. Gerard stared at him, obviously not amused by this boy's pity attempt to make friends. The boy's smile turned to a frown as he cleared his throat.

"My name is...", Gerard said in his French accent, "Aaron Delaware."

"Aaron, good to meet you."

"Yeah, just move out of the side seat. I want to sit by the window," Gerard said to the boy.

"Hey, I sat by the win-"

"Now," Gerard said, annoyed with the boy.

Jack moved out the seat, frowning towards Gerard. Gerard gave the kid a dirty look as he moved into the seat. Gerard took a seat down onto the chair and looked silently out the window. He felt the booth move as he looked over to see that the kid unfortunately had to sit with him. What was worse was that he would have to sit there for the two hour trip. With that kid. In the same seat. The nightmare of every single mature adult.

"I'm sorry if I am-"

"Just don't talk to me for now," Gerard interrupted, "I need to think through some things."

"Okay. I will leave you alone. For now," Jack said, looking forward towards the front of the bus.

"Alright ladies, better enjoy home for awhile. You ain't going to see your momma for awhile," the military bus driver said over the intercom.

Gerard watched as the houses beside the bus started to move backwards as the bus moved forwards. Leaving his own home again. He was used to it now. It seemed like a metaphor of his entire immortal life: Life moves backwards while you go forward.

OOO

West Flanders, 1578

"Don't go too far!", yelled Maryanna, "I will never find you again Gerard!"

At ten years old, Gerard felt free in his life. He just wanted to let himself feel free. Gerard ran across the rolling prairies of green, laughing as he spread his arms to each side. His mother strayed far behind, trying to catch up with Gerard. Gerard didn't listen for her pleas for him to come back. He just wanted to get into the outside world, as everybody should get as a kid.

Gerard stopped at the top of a hill, grasses reaching as tall as his knees. He looked into the horizon. He could see the rolling hills of the prairies and the grasses shining a dark green or a light yellow. He let himself breath softly. He then heard his mother laughing as she was running up to him.

"That is the second time Gerard," she said, hugging him, "one day I will never be able to find you again and that would be the death of m-"

Without warning, Maryanna heard the loud neighing of a horse. Thinking they were being attacked, she grabbed Gerard and ducked to the ground. When Gerard looked up to see what the commotion was.  
He felt relief as he saw that it was his father, sitting on top of his horse, laughing.

"You scally-wags!", John said, "trying to leave Flanders, eh? Off schedule?"

"Gerard was just being a problem," Maryanna said, "but he still is my beautiful angel."

"Our beautiful angel," John said.

"Right," Maryanna said, lifting Gerard's shirt up and tickling his belly. John chuckled as he looked at the wonderful cacophony of laughing and loose dirt being thrown around.

"Well, I need to meet up with a few rebels at Gembloux," John said.

"You are riding off again?", asked Maryanna.

"Yes. I don't have much of a choice in the matter," John said, "other than that... Duty calls."

Maryanna's sudden joy went all the way into a state of disappointment. She had wanted to spend more time with her own husband, but ever since he joined the Protestant rebels, especially the Flemish, he wasn't looking to fight for himself. John was doing it for the Protestant Seven Provinces and their cause for wanting to separate from the Holy Roman Emperor himself, King Phillip II of Spain. That was the way his father and his father before him fought, not for themselves, but for the people.

"Go back to the house and into your room," Maryanna said to Gerard, "I need to talk with your father."

"Okay, mother," Gerard said as he walked back to the house.

Maryanna walked quickly back to the house, a thousand thoughts running through her head.

Can't stay for your own wife or son, she thought to herself, think about your own family than your own career.

As she came back to the house, she could hear commotion coming from inside the barn. It was the angry grunts of her husband. She walked into the barn, seeing John kicking a barrel of swords over and throwing a glowing sword blade first into the wooden wall, where it would stick. At first, she saw a charming man happy to see his own family and now he was angry, throwing material across the room.

"FUCK IT! THE FUCKING FUCKERS FUCKED!", he yelled angrily.

"HONEY!", said Maryanna, raising her voice. John looked up from the pile of swords and walked over to the wall where the sword stuck. John pulled on the sword, it wouldn't budge though. He started to pull on it even harder, but the sword stayed stuck. He gave a deep, long sigh as he looked over to Maryanna's direction.

"Is there something wrong?", asked Maryanna.

"Yeah, this sword somehow is having troubles keeping a good shape," John said, surprisingly calm.

"I need to talk to you."

"About what, beauty?", John asked.

"You lied to me," Maryanna said.

"I lied to you? What are you talking about?", John asked, confused.

"You told me that after the last battle, that you would be coming back for your own family," Maryanna said.

"Well that was before I found that we were stationed in Gembloux. I didn't want to look like a coward, so I gave the choice of whether I wanted to run away from a fight or fight for my family's future."

"The only way to fight for your family's future is by being with your own son more than with the army," Maryanna said, "for god's sake you treat the army like your family more than your own."

"For fuck's sake Maryanna, do you want your or Gerard to keep a good future?!", John asked, annoyed.

"Of course I do."

"Than be happy that I am protecting the country so that you and him will be hap-"

"WHAT ABOUT YOUR LIFE HUH!?", Maryanna yelled, "I HAVE TO SIT DOWN EVERYDAY AND WORRY MYSELF SICK, HOPING THAT YOUR ARE STILL ALIVE AND WELL! ONE DAY THE PERSON WHO WILL BE COMING HOME WILL BE THE GENERAL, TELLING ME THAT YOU DIDN'T MAKE THROUGH A BATTLE. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT TO HAPPEN?"

"YOU KNOW DAMN WELL THAT I DON'T WANT ANYTHING BAD TO HAPPEN, BUT IF I AM GOING TO KEEP YOU AND GERARD ALIVE, I WILL KILL MYSELF TO DO IT. I DON'T CARE WHAT HAPPENS TO MY FRIENDS OR COUNTRY AS LONG AS YOU ARE ALIVE!", John yelled.

Maryanna walked quickly out of the barn and back to the farmhouse. Meanwhile, Gerard was peeking inside of the barn, watching his father and mother yell over the problems of his father's contribution to his own country. It did make Gerard think more about what he wanted for his future. His father had persuaded him to join the army and be a warrior like him and his father before him. Gerard had come from a family history of fighters and great commanders. John was a Lieutenant in the Flemish army while his his father fought for the Spanish as a Captain. Gerard wanted to view himself as a normal boy and be an painter. He had seen the paintings that Leonardo Da Vinci had made and the Sistine Chapel itself, and it inspired him to be more than a military leader, but a person of great talent in creativity, not in battle strategy.

Gerard walked to the farmhouse and watched Maryanna sitting on a chair, leaning against the wall of the house, crying.

"Mother, what's wrong?", Gerard asked, worried. Maryanna looked up from the wall and towards Gerard's direction. She spread her arms out, an indication that she wanted to hug Gerard. He rushed towards and slumped into her arms.

"Father is fighting for us. You must be strong for me while he is gone. I love you," Maryanna said.

OOO

Parris Island, South Carolina, 1968

"Welcome to Parris Island, Marines, The most difficult place to live or be in America," the bus driver announced.

Gerard looked out the side window and saw a guard standing near the gate, rifle in hand. The bus entered the gate and drove into the facility. The bus stopped next to a large, marine initiation building.

"Your commanding officers should approach any moment. Until then, keep your mouths shut. No talking comes out of those sewers. Oh, and I forgot to mention, you might want to sit up straight," the driver informed.

Gerard straightened his back and sat up straight. He moved his arm up to his dark green trench coat and pulled it opened a little, looking inside. Inside his coat, was a basket-hilted broadsword. On the hilt, there was a passage carved onto the handle. The passage was in Dutch and read, "De moedige en de Warriors."

"MARINE, HEAD UP!", yelled the bus driver. Gerard brought his head up and saw that the bus driver was looking at him.

Gerard snarled and thought to himself, I'll put my head up. Yeah I will. Up your a-

"Attention on deck!", an officer walked onto the bus, standing next to the driver, "I am Sergeant Portman of the 7th Marine Regiment! From now on the only words that will come from your shit-caked sewers will be "Yes, sir" and "No, sir", am I understood?"

"SIR YES SIR!", the passengers yelled.

"SOUND OFF LOUDER YOU NUMB-NUTS!", Sergeant Portman yelled.

"SIR YES SIR!", the passengers yelled much louder.

"ALRIGHT GET THE HELL OFF OF THE BUS! MOVE IT!"

OOO

And that was chapter 1 of Generations, The Lowest Form Of Life. The chapter that contains our first flashback. The next chapter will take a focus on Gerard's father during the historical battle of Gembloux. Stay tuned for Chapter 2, Gembloux.


	3. Gembloux

In a field between the city of Gembloux and Namur, a rebel army composed of Dutch, Flemish, English, Scottish, German, French, and Walloon soldiers take camp. Not only was the army very tired and badly shaped, it was terribly diverse, with religions being from staunch Catholics to zealous Calvinists. One of the biggest problems with the army was that it was terribly led. George de Lalaing, the Count of Rennenberg, Philip de Lalaing, Robert de Melun, and Valentin de Pardieu, the great leaders of this Netherlandish army, were absent from the battle because of the marriage of Baron of Beersel and Marguerite de Merode in Brussels. The command was instead given to Antoine de Goignies and Seigneur de Vendege. With a force of 25,000 men, it seemed that the army had the advantage of mass. Compared to the armies of the Spanish though, size has got nothing to do with power. This battle will define the future of the Union Of Brussels and the rest of the Low Countries...

OOO

January 31, 1578: Spanish Netherlands

The last days of January have been rough for the Union Of Brussels. Many soldiers were sick from diseases and exposed to the cold January temperatures. In 1577, Don John of Austria planned for a campaign against the Netherlandish army. In July 1577, he took the Citadel of Namur by surprise without even firing a single shot. This action would make the alliance of Catholics and Protestants in the Netherlandish army destabilize. On December 1577, John of Austria received 9000 Spanish troops from Spanish Lombardy under Don Alexander Farnese, Prince Of Parma. By January, John of Austria had 20,000 men in his command. The Union Of Brussels however still had 5000 more men.

John entered the camp. The first thing he saw were the silhouettes of soldiers. They didn't even look alive. Most of them were pale with no color at all, while others had growths and ulcers all of their faces, gushing with disgusting puss and blood. John had thought he had made a wrong turn, ending up in the valley of lepers. The only way he could know if he had entered the right place, is if he could find his friend, Major Aldobrandino Picot. Picot had just celebrated his 51st birthday, which he had celebrated with the other commanders of the army. Picot had his first battle during the Italian Wars Of 1551-1559, which was the battle of Marciano. Picot himself was only 26 years old. After the war ended, he was given a decision, whether he would commit his life to military or he would join the Italian government. He made the decision to stay with his fellow peers and go further up in the ranks to continue his glory.

One of the soldiers stood up from a log, sitting next to a burning campfire. He walked over to John and saluted him.

"Good day, sir," the soldier said, "never thought you would come."

"Thank you Sergeant," John said, "where could I find Aldobrandino Picot?"

"He is in his tent," the soldier said, "you know? The one with the Holy Roman Empire symbol plastered on the side?"

Still Catholic, eh?, John thought to himself, that is going to cause a few problems.

"Thank you Sergeant," John said.

John walked towards the tent, looking around as he walked. He looked close towards the soldiers who were sitting down or walking, examining them closely. He nodded his head left to right, knowing that if they went to battle, they would most likely be torn apart. Some of the soldiers he walked past had no shoes or coats. There were plenty of musketeers, but a lot of soldiers had nothing more than large branches, scythes, sledgehammers, mallets, saws, and even crossbows. While some were effective, some looked dated and worn out. The amount of musketeers was still reasonable though, and a lot were in uniform. Even though this, John was still unsatisfied with the condition of the rest of the army.

John entered the tent and saw Picot, sitting on a chair and writing a letter. he had shoulder-length, brown wavy hair tied into a ponytail. He was wearing a green uniform with a yellow belt tied around his waist. John knocked on a wooden column that had been holding up the tent. Picot didn't look from his desk, but spoke to him.

"Don't bother me right now soldier," Picot said, "can't you see I am writing a letter?"

"Of course I can, my friend," John said. Picot put down his pen and grabbed something in his waist. Picot stood up quickly and pulled out a wheellock pistol, coking it and pointing it towards John.

"Heavens!", John yelled while putting his hands up, "put down the pistol Aldobrandino!"

Picot chuckled, "Scared some sense into you, didn't I?"

"You really did," John said, breathing heavily. Picot went over to John and put his hands around him, hugging his body.

"How are you, my friend?", Picot asked, "I never thought that you would make it all the way."

"I made sure to come ready and prepared," John said as he lifted his coat, exposing a sword holster and a pistol tucked into his pants.

"Come John," Picot said, "let's take a walk, eh?"

"Aren't you busy?", John asked.

"No, all I was doing was writing a letter to my family, but I can just finish that later," Picot answered, putting one arm around John's shoulders.

Picot lead John out of the tent. John didn't feel like walking through this hell again. But, he had seen worse.

"How is Ricardo doing?", John asked.

"He is busy right now," Picot said, "probably helping soldiers with their smallpox."

Ricardo Ebanese is the master surgeon of the camp. For 50 years, he worked with hundreds to maybe thousands of patients. From diseases to mutilations, Ricardo had done it all. For so long he was able to help and cure hundreds of patients. Very rarely did he ever lose too many patients. This has made some people call him the "Witch Doctor".

"I can take you too him right now," Picot said, "he is working on a patient with a terrible infection on the buttocks."

"Do you know what it is?", John asked.

"No, but I heard it was bad," Picot said, "hopefully it doesn't kill him."

Picot walked John over to a smaller tent, with a coat of arms plastered on the side. The coat of arms contained two white horses, standing on their hind legs facing opposite sides, with a king's crown in the middle. This was Ricardo's coat of arms. Coming from the inside of the room were painful grunts and moans. He was working on somebody.

"Ricardo specializes in major infections," Picot explained, "I remember one time where he almost had to use a hot iron on a poor man's penis."

"Can you spare the details please?", John asked.

"Sorry, my friend," Picot apologized.

When they entered the room, they could see doctors surrounding a wooden table with a man laying on his side. The man's pants were off, the doctors sticking medical instruments into the man's ass. Fresh blood stains were spotted on the doctor's white ruffled shirt. Ricardo was holding a pen and writing on a piece of paper on top of a wooden board. Ricardo took his eyes off of the paper and saw the men, standing in the opening.

"Sergeant Major John Erron. Lieutenant Aldobrandino Picot. Welcome," Ricardo said.

"Thank you doctor," John said, "By the way, its Lieutenant John Erron now."

"Well, congratulations Lieutenant," Ricardo said, clapping.

"What is wrong with our patient here?", asked Picot.

"It seems that our soldier here has some sort of infected growth forming along the opening of the anus," Ricardo explained, "take a look."

Picot and John walked to the end of the table and looked into the man's ass. Along the sides of the anus was a dark-red growth seeping with pus and blood. Like a giant blister. It let off a terrible stink as well that had filled up the whole room.

"We tried slashing a few parts of the growth, but it seems that it just makes it worse," Ricardo said.

"Looks a lot like a hemorrhoid to me," Picot said.

"That is exactly what my mind was telling me as well," Ricardo answered.

"There must be another way to get rid of it," John said.

"Well, now I think we can agree about one thing," Ricardo said, "the best thing to do is use the hot iron."

"OH GOD PLEASE NO!", yelled the wounded soldier.

"Do you want us to cut it off?", Ricardo said.

"Of course not, but please don't use the iron," the soldier pleaded.

"It is the only thing that we can do dammit!", Ricardo said.

Before Ricardo could grab the burning iron though, the sound of bells rang. These bells meant that it was time for battle.

"Looks like you boys better move quick," Ricardo said, "good luck."

OOO

Dawn, January 31, 1578: Gembloux, Spanish Netherlands

De Goignies, commander of the Netherlandish army, has just gotten word that the Spanish army was approaching Namur. Because of this, De Goignies gave the order for his army to take camp up back at Gembloux. Moving his large army, he felt that they had gotten enough time to get ready. Nothing could prepare them for the tragedy that they would face during this battle.

As the Netherlandish army marched to Gembloux, they passed a village. Once the army passed through, the villagers cheered and waved to Picot and John as well as the other soldiers. Some of the villagers handed out bread, fruits, water, and cheeses to hungered soldiers.

"Are you afraid John?", Picot asked.

"No, Aldobrandino, I'm not," John said.

"How brave of you. The first time I was given a musket, my penis discharged more often then my gun!"

The two men laughed loudly while they rode on their horses, a few rows behind the colonels and generals. Behind them were thousands of soldiers, walking in column formation and holding matchlock muskets on their shoulders. They were all holding the lit matches in their hands, waving towards the townsfolk. John felt ashamed that the last thing he saw of Maryanna was her, red with anger because of his dependence on his own country. Aldobrandino was happily waving towards the villagers, wishing them all good luck.

"John, you are turning pale," Picot said, "are you alright?"

"I am fine Picot. Don't be so worried about me," John said.

"You ain't going to let yours discharge right?", Picot jokingly asked.

"If it does, it will discharge into the faces of the Spaniards I kill."

Word had spread fast about the arrival of the Spanish army. Facing against one of the greatest military powers in the world was not going to be very easy. As said before, size doesn't matter. A great example of this would be the many battles between Hernan Cortes and the Aztecs. With only 150 men, with the help of fellow Central American tribes, were able to completely wipe out the Aztecs in a matter of a few months.

OOO

Sitting on the fields of the Spanish Netherlands, John was desperate to begin. Even though he didn't want to get himself killed, he still wanted to try his best to command a battalion of the Netherlandish army. Separated into 3 lines, the soldiers watched the rolling fields in front of them. Long and spaced, green and bright even though it had been winter for a month already. The Meuse River was on the left side of the army. The current made a soft trickling. A very dead calm. The battlefield was barren of any snow or blood. In fact, the temperature was just right. A more lukewarm type. Like during the beginning of the spring, the fields would not look like this later, as death would take over the beauty of nature, like a wildfire destroying millions of acres of forest. To John, this was one of the most beautiful battlefields he has ever seen in the 20 years he had fought with the Flemish and the Dutch.

"A beauty isn't it?", Picot asked John, sitting on his horse.

"Yes," John said, "it is like nothing I have seen before. The battlefields that I used to fight always had dirty grasses and leafless trees."

"I am fifty-one years of age," Picot explained, "I fought during the Italian Wars in the 1550s. Earned a road of glory through Italy. I was respected by my officers and peers. Never would I ever want to lose any of that glory."

"Well I am only 46 years of age and have only fought in the army for 23 years. I have been in many bloody, terrible battles," John explained, "most of the blood battles that I had joined were either decisive wins or decisive los-"

A young boy rode quickly back on horseback. The cape on his back flopped as the horse's gallop made his body jump around. He rode up to John.

"The Spanish are here, sir!", the watcher said, "their army is upon us and god-willing, ready to kill."

"What is their formation?", John asked.

"Cavalry is located at their front. The rest of the army is located behind them."

"Do you know where the bulk of their army is?", John asked.

"The army seems to have as many foot soldiers as cavalry, so I believe that it is all of them," the boy answered.

"Well let's hope that the river helps us," Picot said.

They hoped to God that the river helped them. The Meuse River had a strong current, but the water was shallow enough. Soldiers on horseback would be able to trek the river losing very little in the entire process. They could see the army was approaching now.

"Ready yourselves men!", Picot yelled, "heavy musketeers at the ready!"

"Right face!", John yelled as the line infantry to the right, "march 5 paces! Give room for the heavy musketeers."

In response, the line infantry moved to the side as a group of twenty heavy musketeers took out their weapon stands and bolted them to the ground. The soft dirt encircled itself around the stand. The musketeers picked up their muskets and set the barrel onto the horseshoe shaped ring.

"Prime and load!", Picot yelled.

This meant that the soldiers were to load their muskets. As they loaded their muskets, John looked around and saw the rest of the army, ready to fight. His regiment though, didn't look very adamant. He could see their hands trembling with fear. Their hope faded away as they saw the approaching Spanish army. John felt some of his hope fade away as well as seeing his own men trembling showed him that they were not yet ready to fight. They were just to scared to do it.

"TO ARMS! TO ARMS!", Picot yelled.

From this order, all of the men looked to the left. John saw a large amount of cavalry heading towards them.

Shit, John thought to himself, they have the element of surprise.

"FIRE AT THEM FOR FUCK'S SAKE!", John yelled.

Before the army could fire, the cavalry ran into them. The panicked soldiers discharged their muskets into the air. Other soldiers used their sledgehammers and logs trying to hurt or kill the soldier. It seemed to take no effect. What did they expect anyway? Not using ranged weapons would prove to be a death note when walking out into the battlefield. The heavy musketeers tripped over as they tried to turn towards the cavalry. John's horse went berserk and flipped him off. John landed hard onto his back. He took out his wheellock pistol and fired it into the cavalry. From his shot, one of the men fell off of his horse, his body being trampled by the rest of the coming cavalry. It was no use. The army's order had disintegrated. Without his order, the army fled away from the field and back to base.

"PICOT!", John yelled for him.

It had gone in such a fast flash that John forgot about Picot. He didn't know where he was, or if he was dead or alive. John had no choice but to follow the soldiers back to base. The cavalry was on pursuit now, not sparing any man. The fleeing men were being trampled and slashed open with swords. As John ran, he saw the dead bodies of many soldiers. Entrails were spread out everywhere. Entire bodies were torn apart. Some had no heads.

As he ran up the hill, he could see the army regrouping. This was a chance to finally get back at the Spanish.

"FOR THE NE-"

Before John could yell, a strong force knocked him to the ground. He couldn't hear anything out of his ears. He looked to his right and saw the body parts and organs of people flying all over the place. A thick cloud of gray and black smoke filled the air. John tried to stand up, but something kept him down. He felt a pain along his stomach and chest. He felt razor-sharp pieces of wood and metal stuck in his body. That is not all he felt though.

He could feel blood sliding along his arm and down to the fingers. It's warmth soon turns cold and, as it reached the tips of his fingers, the drops let go and fell to the ground. He looked to the left and saw burning grass and the limbs of many dead soldiers. A cannon station had blown to pieces. This was the most unhonorable death that John could think of.

I cannot give in, John thought to himself, I may be down on my knees, but I cannot give in.  
No further. No more. But his entire body tells him to lay down and rest for a while. John feels tired and stressed.

No, John thought to himself, no way, there's no way I'm going out like this! There's no way! This is pathetic, I'm better than this. I'm stronger than this. I'll get out of here, yes, I just need to find a way. That can't be too difficult.

He couldn't take this much longer. He couldn't think about leaving Maryanna or any of his family. This whole world he would leave behind, all for a stupid country! His entire body screamed, telling him to lie down and sleep.

I must resist, John thought to himself, If I sleep I'll surely die, but I can't take this much longer. I'll just.. I'll just lie down for a little while. Save my energy, I'll make it out of this mess soon enough.

He would have crawled to his fellow soldiers, but they were busy trying to save themselves from the massacre. They felt the same way that John did. He just wanted to go home and stay with his family. His body heaved in pain and ran cold. This is it. This is how it would end for him.

Goodbye, Maryanna...

OOO

By February 5, 1578, the rebels surrendered to the Spanish in Gembloux. In the aftermath of the entire battle, eight to twelve thousand Netherlandish soldiers would be either killed or injured. Spanish losses however, were very minimal. Only 12 were killed in action while 3 were injured. This loss lead Prince William Of Orange, the leader of the revolt, to leave Brussels. This would officially end the Union Of Brussels as well. This would be one of the worst losses during the Dutch Revolt.

OOO

That was chapter 2 of Generations. History buffs are going to have a field day with this chapter. Be so kind as to name any historical inaccuracies that I may have accidently included. The Battle Of Gembloux was a real battle fought in 1578 during the Dutch Revolt. I tried to make it as close to history as possible. If I didn't do good, I will try and improve upon this. Stay tuned for the next chapter, whose title is unknown at the moment.


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